Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Nay, but Jack, such eyes such eyes so innocently wild so bashfully irresolute Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love Then, Jack, her cheeks her cheeks, Jack so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes Then, Jack, her lips O, Jack, lips smiling at their own discretion and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting -- more lovely in sullenness Then, Jack, her neck O, Jack, Jack
Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick Fling ''Peregrine Pickle'' under the toilette --throw ''Roderick Random'' into the closet --put ''The Innocent Adultery'' into ''The Whole Duty of Man'' thrust ''Lord Aimworth'' under the sofa cram ''Ovid'' behind the bolster there --put ''The Man of Feeling'' into your pocket. Now for them.